


Tumblr Meme Round-Up

by newamsterdam



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Multi, Tumblr Memes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:42:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various fills for a prompt meme calling for happy and light-hearted writing. Heavy FrUK bias. Various scenes, including drunken encounters at bars, colonial families in the New World, and 1889 world expos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. FrUK - "Are you flirting with me?"

**Author's Note:**

> Meme originally posted [here](http://aphnewamsterdam.tumblr.com/post/109985690013/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-line-of-dialogue-and-ill). I've been using these as a warm-up, so most of these stories are snippets and not very complete. Some of them turned out pretty well, though, so I thought I'd archive them here. I'll update this as I complete more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With love to Kate Miller-Heidke for [inspirational lyrics](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-TAkKI5LmE).

It’s an insult of the gravest kind, England thinks as he nurses his third pint and glares across the room. Sitting here—in his own goddamn bar—watching his brother make eyes at France in a way that is almost entirely undignified, and being alone while the two of them take cozy sips from each other’s drinks.  
   
(He’s beyond expecting dignity from Scotland, as it happens. But the idiot could try and surprise him with a bit of restraint, at least.)  
   
But, no, that’s not how things are working out. Because France and Scotland are ensconced at a table at the back of the bar, and Scotland’s been edging closer and closer to France all night. And no one could ever expect the frog to be the one to reign things in—he’s leaning forward, letting Scotland throw an arm around his shoulders and trail his fingers over France’s slim wrists.  
   
“Arseholes,” England mutters, knocking back the rest of his drink.  
   
“Alright there?” the barkeep, Tom, asks. England merely brandishes his now-empty glass.  
   
“Another, if you please,” England grumbles. Then he buries his chin further into his scarf so he can continue watching France and Scotland.  
   
Scotland looks as unkempt as ever, reddish hair falling over his eyes and grin slightly crooked. His shirt’s untucked, his cuffs unbuttoned, and England doesn’t know how France stands the sight of him. Because France, as they all know, is too fancy for bars tucked away in charming English villages. France only drinks red wines from 1902, thank you very much. So how he’s putting up with Scotland, England doesn’t know.  
   
As for why Scotland’s suddenly so interested in France… it’s the sweater’s fault, England’s sure. Since his glass is filled once again, he takes a deep sip and continues to stew in his anger.  
   
It’s the sweater’s fault, because it’s blue. It’s an old thing, France has had it for years and years. Unlike most items in his wardrobe, he hadn’t gotten bored with it after a single season and thrown it out. And it’s obvious why—the cashmere is well-cared for and smooth, the cut perfectly tailored to France’s broad shoulders and slim waist. But the real magic of it is the way it matches the shade of France’s eyes exactly, bringing them into almost unfair prominence.  
   
Fuck that sweater.   
   
France is laughing, now, and hiding his face in the space between Scotland’s neck and shoulder. Scotland only frequents this bar because he knows England owns it; he puts all his drinks on the Kirkland tab. But little does he know, England thinks darkly. England’s been keeping Scotland’s tab for decades, now, and one day he will collect it. And Scotland, tosser that he is, won’t see it coming.  
   
Maybe he should do so tonight, England considers. Embarrass Scotland in front of France, and leave him scrambling to pay for whatever he’s convinced France to drink. It’s almost a perfect plan, except that with France looking as he does in that sweater, Scotland would probably just pay his tab and win points with France for doing so.  
   
England tilts his glass, chasing the last few drops of beer with his tongue. If Scotland had any consideration at all, he’d stop embarrassing himself. Because England knows that look in his brother’s eye: he’s about to go in for a kiss, and he thinks, with the way France is responding, that he’ll get it.  
   
So it’s a surprise to both brothers when France lifts a hand to cover Scotland’s lips, pushing him away gently as he murmurs something to him. Scotland tilts his head back, eyes questioning. But then he laughs, shaking his head. France smiles softly and kisses his cheek, before he pushes back his chair and rises to his feet.  
   
England’s face has grown too warm, all of a sudden, and it doesn’t help that France is now walking directly towards him. Has he known England’s been here the entire time? And how does he even manage to fit into those jeans, who paints them onto him every morning—  
   
“Hello, Angleterre. Are you having fun?”  
   
England makes a noncommittal noise, holding up his glass again. He doesn’t see France shake his head at the barkeep.  
   
“You know how I feel about that sweater,” England snaps, when he can feel his tongue again.  
   
France lifts a careful brow, smiling brightly. “Do I,” he says, coming to sit beside England.  
   
“Yes,” England informs him. “It’s annoying.”  
   
France knocks his shoulder against England’s, laughing. “What’s annoying?”  
   
“How you’re so stupid, and you look so good.” England’s words as slurred, but he’s still unaccountably glad that France is sitting here, with him, instead of across the room with Scotland.  
   
“Are you flirting with me, darling?”  
   
“No. Yes. I don’t have to.” The sweater is soft, England thinks, as he leans closer to France and digs his fingers into the material.  
   
“You don’t have to,” France repeats, and England can hear the smile in his voice even though he’s no longer looking at his face.  
   
“Yes,” England decides. “Because I’m the one dating you, not my stupid brother.”  
   
“That’s right,” France assures him. “And you wanted me to be the one to tell him that, remember? That’s why we’re here.”  
   
Is it? England can’t really remember. But he can see Scotland on the other side of the bar, leaving his chair out as he tucks his hands in his pockets and heads for the door. He lifts a hand in greeting to France, and looks down his nose at England. He’s saying something.  
   
“Take care of ‘im,” Scotland calls out, and England doesn’t know which of them he’s talking to.  
   
This night has suddenly become very confusing. England licks his lips and looks up at France, brow furrowing. “Your stupid eyes are so blue,” he murmurs.  
   
France laughs again, his arm tight around England’s waist. “I think you must be very drunk, darling,” he says. “It’s dangerous to leave you alone at bars.”  
   
“At least I don’t have the kinda tab Scotland’s got,” England protests, but France is warm against his side, so he supposes he’ll let the frog take him home. Just because of the sweater, maybe.


	2. FrUK - "I'll never unsee that."

Honestly, France doesn’t like visiting the colonies much. Beaver-hunting is an incredibly tedious, incredibly dirty process, and France doesn’t much care for it. His fur-trappers are good men, but they’re a rough-and-tumble sort and the longer they’re in the New World, the worse their French gets. France, in his lace and pearls and ribbons, is a creature made for court, not cabin. And for the most part, he’s alright admitting that.  
   
But oh, he does love visiting his colony. Because Canada, his latest and most precious little brother, gives France his undivided attention and unconditional love. He, like France’s trappers, is a bit rough around the edges. He has an aversion to shoes and likes mud and dirt a bit too much. But those are forgivable flaws, and ones that France is sure he’ll abandon at some point, anyway. And his French is getting much better.  
   
So France is looking forward to spending time with Canada, as he disembarks his ship and heads into town. He asks after Canada from one colonist or another, growing increasingly distressed as he hears the same answer, over and over.  
   
“Oh, the young sir’s gone south for a bit. To visit Fort Niagara.”  
   
France prefers Canada to stay in Quebec, because it’s mostly settled and, most importantly, it’s far away from England’s territories in the New World. But if Canada’s gone south, it can only be for one reason.  
   
He’s too cultured a country to ever entertain the idea of jealousy, even for a moment. But as France hires a horse and packs some provisions for the road, there’s a bitterness sinking into the pit of his stomach. True, he doesn’t spend as much time as he could here, but that doesn’t mean Canada has to go running off to England’s lands! What does England possibly have to offer him, other than burnt bread and an uncouth language? Nothing, France decides, nothing at all. England would probably even forget to bring Canada new shoes, every time he visited!  
   
It’s a benefit of nationhood that he reaches the fort in no time at all, with not a hair out of place. Still, France ducks into private quarters to straighten up before he goes in search of Canada. There’s no need to let the boy know he rode through the night to make sure he hadn’t fallen into the wrong hands, after all. When he’s properly refreshed, France makes his rounds with the commanding officers. When he asks after Canada, he receives another unwelcome answer.  
   
“He’s gone into town, sir.”  
   
Which means he’s in his brother’s lands, which means he’s with England. France swallows down a curse, and wonders why god has turned on him like this.  
   
The ride into the village is a short one—thank god, even though he’s been liberal with his curses lately—and France knows by rote which residences England keeps in which cities. Usually he prefers to visit Jamestown or Boston, because that is where America usually resides. France knows this because he rather likes the boy, and often brings him books to read. It’s never a bad move to curry favor where you can, after all.  
   
France is ready to march into England’s house and rip Canada out of his arms with all the fire and intimidation he can muster—really, he is. But something stops his hand as he reaches England’s house in Albany. Instead, he eases the door open slightly and sneaks inside. Shadowed in the entryway, he isn’t spotted by the nations sitting in the main room.  
   
England has a fire going, and is sitting back in a sturdy wooden chair with a book open on his lap. Canada and America have stools pulled up on either side of him, Canada’s hands folded neatly in his lap and America’s brushing along the pages of the book.  
   
“And so, the moral is that fine feathers don’t always make fine birds,” England reads in an authoritative tone, “And also that peacocks are the worst. Not worth anyone’s time, always strutting around as though beauty is so very important—can’t stand the things, personally—”  
   
“England,” America is saying, tugging at the elder nation’s hand, “read the one about the lion and the mouse, again!”  
   
“Oh,” Canada says softly, and France wonders if England even hears him, “I thought we were reading the one about the nightingale, next.”  
   
England will probably cater to America, France thinks darkly, and his poor Canada will not get to hear his story. This is why Canada should stay in New France, and read French books. Clearly, they are superior.  
   
England clears his throat. “Alright, alright. ‘A labourer lay listening to a nightingale’s song…’”  
   
Canada positively beams as England reads his story, and something twists in France’s chest. England has a powerful oratory technique, his voice shifting for each character, his expressions wide and comical. The boys both laugh at the story, America’s legs swinging as Canada reaches over to study the pictures in the book.  
   
And France is frozen in the doorway, watching them. England’s face is calm and kind, more relaxed that France has seen it in years. He reaches down to ruffle America’s hair, and then, when the story’s over, gives Canada’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.  
   
France wants to capture that moment, to bottle it and breathe it in.  
   
But it doesn’t last. As England’s turning the page of his book, he looks up and his eyes meet France’s. He immediately leaps to his feet, disturbing the children and knocking the book to the floor.  
   
“You! What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, marching towards France.  
   
France sighs and rolls his eyes. “I’ve come to take Canada home,” he drawls, holding up a hand to halt England’s advance. “You had no business bringing him here.”  
   
“Oh, but he didn’t!” America says. “Canada came to visit me! And we didn’t even know England would be here. It was a sur-prise!”  
   
France glances to Canada; Canada nods in solemn agreement. France shakes his head and holds out his hand. “It hardly matters. Come, Canada. We’re going home.”  
   
England looks as though to argue, but France silences him with a look. But as Canada takes France’s hand and France leads him out the door, England grabs for the feather from France’s hat and crushes it between his fingers. France glares poisonously at him.  
   
“Your translations of Aesop lack finesse, sourcils,” France comments. And, before England can have the last word, he leads Canada back to his horse.  
   
“You’re not mad, are you?” Canada asked in a hush voice as they head back to Niagara.  
   
France shakes his head and ruffles Canada’s hair. “Not at you, mon chou. Although—where are your shoes?”  
   
What France doesn’t tell Canada is this: he is wondering, despairing really, about the next time he’ll meet England on the battlefield. He is wondering if he will hold a rifle or a bayonet towards him, and, when he does, if he’ll see England surrounded by the boys, reading them fables with that gentle smile on his face.  
   
He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to unsee the image.


	3. NedCan - "That's a good look for you."

Canada still isn’t precisely used to the fact that he has a key to Nederland’s canal house in Amsterdam, or that he can visit said house whenever he’d like, or even that the last time he’d been in Belgium, he’d gotten several irate text messages the next week asking why he hadn’t used his key and visited the canal house when he was only “a few goddamn hours away.”  
   
So Canada has learned his lesson, this time. He walks gingerly up the steps of Nederland’s old house, grinning at the potted plants in the window and the orange bike set against the stoop. It’s a clear, bright day, and the water runs gently through the canals as Canada turns for a moment to admire Nederland’s beloved city.  
   
Then he turns and digs around in his pockets for the key—small, brass, tied to a length of red and white ribbon for the colors his flag shares with Nederland’s. When he’d dared to comment on that, the other nation had given him a stony look and muttered something about keeping things organized. Canada, however, knew better.  
   
And it’s precisely because he knows better that he lets go of his shyness and unlocks the door, entering Nederland’s house with a quiet grin. “Ned,” he calls out, glancing around, “Are you here? I saw your bike outside.”  
   
He gets no answer, and after ducking into the (spotless) kitchen and peeking into Nederland’s study, he heads up the stairs. He’s halfway to the second floor when he hears the pipes running. Still grinning, he opens the door to Nederland’s bedroom, settles himself on a corner of the bed, and waits.  
   
The thing of it is, his relationship with Nederland isn’t precisely new. It’s been going on for decades, over fifty years. But there’s still a freshness to it, a fragility that Canada isn’t sure he’s not imagining. For instance, he knows this bed intimately, every pair of sheets and the old patchwork quilt that Nederland keeps on top of it. And yet Canada’s sitting on the barest corner of it, a guest more than a confidante.  
   
Maybe it is in his head, Canada thinks. After all, he has a key.  
   
It’s when he comes to that realization that the pipes go silent, and Canada hears someone scuffling around on the other side of the bathroom door. And, a moment later, the door swings open to reveal Nederland, still damp from the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. He looks surprised for just a moment, and then his face shifts to a version of stoic that Canada has come to read as “happy.”  
   
“Hallo, schatje,” he murmurs, stepping into the room.  
   
Canada grins in response, offers a small wave. But he’s not entirely focused on Nederland’s greeting, because he’s too busy looking at the other nation. It’s a nice view, he has to admit, Nederland’s long limbs and sculpted chest on prominent display. But more importantly, a Nederland fresh out of the shower is a Nederland who has not yet gelled his hair. Darkened by the water, it flops over Nederland’s forehead and frames his face, making him look younger and softer. His face is still defined by the stern slant of his brows and the set of his jaw, but it’s impossible to look at him at this moment and think anything but…  
   
“Cute.” He doesn’t really intend to say the word out loud, but it’s too late. Nederland turns from where he’s digging around in his drawers, brows lifted in question.  
   
“What,” he says, giving Canada a sterner look. But that doesn’t make him any more intimidating. Canada grins and turns his head to the side.  
   
“I said you look cute.” He decides to push his luck. Getting to his feet, he crosses the room towards Nederland, standing close behind him. “This is a good look for you.”  
   
He can feel the heat rising in Nederland’s face, sees the color creeping up his neck. He takes the opportunity and leans in, brushing his lips against the still-damp nape of Nederland’s neck.  
   
Nederland sighs almost inaudibly in response, relaxing as Canada’s arms circle his waist. Then he turns so that they’re facing one another, looking down at Canada with a bemused expression.  
   
“Don’t get used to it,” he says. “Not leaving the house like this.”  
   
Canada decides that if this, like the house key and the familiarity with Nederland’s sheets, belongs just to him, he’s more than alright with that.  
   
He leans forward again to press his lips to Nederland’s, in order to prove it.


	4. FrUK - "Stop trying to cheer me up!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Eiffel Tower was actually unveiled before July of 1889, but for the sake of the fic let’s fudge the details a bit, shall we?

England thinks that the one-upmanship of these world expos has gotten a bit out of hand. At least, he thinks so when his nation isn’t currently winning. And these last few months have been all about Paris and the Exposition Universelle, so of course England finds it even more distasteful than usual. If the Prince hadn’t wanted to come, he wouldn’t have been here at all.  
   
And yet, here he is. July 14, 1889, standing outside the door to France’s apartment with a bouquet in one hand and the other clenched into a fist.  _Go make nice_ , the Prince had said, _I’m going on a private tour of the Tower_.  
   
England raps his knuckles against the door for the third time. “I know you’re in there!” he calls out. “Open the damn door, France!”  
   
He hears some muffled response from the other side of the door and rolls his eyes. Honestly, why does he even bother? France is probably in there, surrounded by admirers, enjoying himself thoroughly and laughing at England’s efforts. Because this isn’t what they do for one another—the last time France had been to London for such a display, he’d kept his nose in the air the entire time.  
   
“I’m leaving!” England roars, feeling the prick of thorns through the thin paper wrapping the bouquet. “I’m leaving, and you can enjoy your damn birthday on your own, because I don’t care that you won’t open the door, and—!”  
   
He cuts off as the door swings open. France stands there, looking at England through narrowed, bleary blue eyes. He has a thick shawl wrapped around himself, shoulders hunched as he leans forward. He blinks lazily.  
   
“Ah, Angleterre. I thought I heard your dulcet voice.” Even the quip isn’t delivered with France’s usual smug assurance. Instead, he merely turns, walking back into his apartment. England blinks once, twice, and then follows, although he hasn’t been invited.  
   
They end up in the kitchen—France has put the kettle on, a practiced movement that speaks more to familiarity than animosity. England pulls a vase down from the cupboard and fills it with water, setting the red roses in it before placing it carefully at the kitchen table. He takes a seat, then, leaning back in his chair as he surveys France’s home warily.  
   
“Well?” he asks, after many minutes’ stale silence. “What on earth is the matter with you, then?”  
   
France doesn’t answer, at first. He sets a cup of tea down in front of England, but doesn’t make himself a cup of coffee or even pour some wine. He sits down across from the other nation and shrugs—it’s such an unpracticed, uncaring gesture, entirely foreign on the dramatic and artful France.  
   
“Why do I even bother,” England mutters to himself.  
   
“It’s ugly.”  
   
England looks up, surprised that France has finally spoken. “What?”  
   
“The Tower. It’s ‘ideous.” His words slur into one another, consonants swallowed by his exaggerated accent. “How will I face everyone?”  
   
Oh, for god’s sake, England thinks. “I thought the point was to beat America’s record. Why should it matter what it looks like?”  
   
“Because it’s  _mine_!” France sounds scandalized, which is at least a bit better than grey and uninterested. “It is on all of the posters, and postcards, and everyone will remember it. It is a reflection of me—it must be—it must be—better than  _that_!” He throws a hand towards the window, where the curtains are firmly drawn. But England knows that the Tower will be visible outside it.  
   
“So you’re going to let pride ruin your birthday?” England suggests, sipping his tea with a smug smile. “How vain you’ve gotten, France.”  
   
This only serves to further incense France. “At least I have some pride! I do not just build ugly blackened cities and serve my guests lumpy potpies. Even your gardens are—they’re—are those for me?”  
   
He seems to have finally spotted the flowers. England chews the inside of his cheek and tries to resist rolling his eyes, again. Or blushing. Not that he’d ever blush over France’s attentions.  
   
“I certainly didn’t bring them here for my own benefit,” he comments dryly.  
   
France looks up at him and smiles, softly. He’s terribly predictable, and very easy to woo with gifts. Especially flowers. But even so, the smile doesn’t rid his face of its melancholy. He gets like this, sometimes, perhaps once every fifty years or so. Instead of flamboyant and coy, he becomes withdrawn and listless. Ennui, he’d called it the last time. England understands better than he lets on.  
   
“After all,” he says, “you’re not so young anymore. Who knows how many hundredth birthdays you have left in you?”  
   
France sniffs delicately. “I am young at heart,” he claims. “And at least not a stuffy old man like you.”  
   
England tilts his head, accepts the label without a fight. He’s a gentleman, at least. “Get dressed, France. Let’s go see your hideous tower.”  
   
It takes some coaxing, but eventually France is clothed and his hair is combed and he’s leaning comfortably against England as they stand directly beneath the tower, gazing up through its interlocking arches and bars.  
   
“See,” France says dismally, “there’s no beauty to it, at all.”  
   
England doesn’t disagree. “It has substance,” he decides, “There’s nothing covering up what it is, you can see exactly how it was built. Maybe it’s supposed to remind people that you’re not all fluff.” England elbows France in the ribs as he says this.  
   
France laughs dryly, doesn’t move away. “Stop trying to cheer me up, Angleterre. It won’t work.” But there’s a smile playing on his lips.  
   
The tower lights up as the sun goes down—red, blue, then dazzling white. And England watches France as France watches the display, his eyes wide as he takes it all in.  
   
England is very familiar with how France looks when he’s falling in love. And he knows, better than anyone, how long it takes France to admit to such things when the feelings are genuine. So he doesn’t goad France any further, just leans against him and thinks: there’s a beauty in this, too.


	5. FrUK - "Everything's going to be fine."

“Relax, darling.” France’s breath is close to England’s ear, his hands running down England’s arms. “Everything’s going to be fine.”  
   
England, perhaps just to be contrary, fidgets in his seat and slaps France’s hands away.“Just get on with it, would you?”  
   
He feels France step back, hears him laughing. Although he wouldn’t admit it, he misses the warmth of France’s body just behind his. Instead of saying so, he shifts on the chair again, resisting the urge to reach up and fiddle with the blindfold that France has just fastened over his eyes.  
   
“I’m doing you a favor, you know.” France’s voice is coming from a few feet away, now. “You don’t need to look so cross about it.”  
   
England huffs, and rolls his eyes for precisely no one’s benefit. He feels his eyelashes brush against the soft material of one of France’s Hermès scarves. It’s deep green in color, so that if he peaks his eyes open all he can see is dappled shadows of that shade. He shifts, again, hands folded in his lap and then gripping his knees, restless movements.  
   
He stiffens when something touches his face—France’s hand, stroking gently along his cheek. “ _Relax_. Or we can find another game to play…?”  
   
Pride won’t let him back down now. “I said we’d do it, so we’re doing this. Or we would be, if you could hurry the fuck up, you—”  
   
Whatever his latest tirade would have been is cut off by France placing another hand against his lips. England opens his mouth on instinct, accepts whatever it is that France is feeding him. It’s soft, and melts against his teeth and tongue as he draws it into his mouth. And, god help him, it is  _delicious_.  
   
He hears France laughing above him as he licks his lips. “Do you like that, cher?”  
   
Still licking the remnants off his teeth, England nods.  
   
“So?” France prompts. “What was it?”  
   
England scowls, but answers all the same. “Chocolate.  _Obviously_. I thought you said this would be a challenge—”  
   
“Mm, no. Not just chocolate. Try again.”  
   
He frowns, presses his lips together. “Milk chocolate,” he tries again. “And some sort of berry? Cherry.”  
   
“Very close,” France says, voice warm with approval and amusement. “Raspberry.”  
   
England bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to feel too disappointed. After all, France could be rigging this game, he wants to see England fail…  
   
“Care to try again?” France suggests after a moment. He has a hand on England’s shoulder, now, long fingers digging in a truly exquisite way. England has to resist the urge to arch towards his touch.  
   
“Yes,” England breathes out.  
   
It takes another moment, but then England feels France’s long hair brushing against his face as the other man holds something against his lips, again. England opens for a bite, teeth cutting straight through something soft and pillowy. His lips touch France’s fingers for just a moment before the other nation draws his hand away.  
   
Again, England takes a moment to chew, to decipher what’s in his mouth.  
   
“Well?” France asks.  
   
“You’re feeding me bloody macarons, you’re so predictable—”  
   
“ _Angleterre_.” France’s voice is stiff with stressed patience. “You can tell  _what_  it is from the shape. We are focusing on the flavor.”  
   
And that, of course, is so much harder. But England, munching happily on the remnants of the macaron, begins to smile. Because France’s tactics have not worked—he knows this taste.  
   
“Matcha,” he declares. “Why, France, I never knew you’d acquired a taste for tea.”  
   
He hears France sigh dramatically. “I should have known that would be too easy. You spend too much time with Japon.”  
   
“Just admit that I’m better at your stupid game that you thought I’d be.”  
   
“Oui, I suppose your palate isn’t an entirely lost cause.”    
   
England thinks he might be relieved, a bit. There’s always a worry, with them, that time will turn all things to routine, and routine will turn all things obsolete. He and France have been dancing to the same tune for so many years, and perhaps that means that one day they’ll tire of one another. England, despite all evidence to the contrary, does not want to see that happen. So when France comes up with these new games and entertainments—“Ways to keep things fresh, darling!”—England puts on a show of being unimpressed, but never really refuses.  
   
So now he’s sitting in France’s kitchen, blindfolded as his erstwhile lover feeds him desserts and mocks his palate. There are worse fates, maybe.  
   
“Another?” France asks, when he’s stopped speculating on why England spends so much time with Japan. England merely nods, and a moment later he feels something cool pressed against his lips. He opens his mouth and France pushes the spoon inside, allowing England to lick away its contents.  
   
The flavors are sweet, and almost overpowering. England bites down on something crunchy, but that sensation quickly melts away to something creamy and soft. Like everything France prepares, this dessert is a perfect blend of flavors and textures. And although England is loath to admit it, robbed of his sight he’s forced to appreciate all those qualities. He appreciates, too, France’s efforts to keep things fresh and vibrant between them.  
   
“I know what crème brûlée is,” he grumbles, while France is still very close in front of him.  
   
“Yes, but this a variation,” France begins to say.  
   
England doesn’t let him finish. He reaches out for where he thinks France must be, and grabs him by the shoulder. He pulls France close, feels the other man’s breath across his face as he laughs.  
   
“Yes, cher? Was there something you wanted?”  
   
He doesn’t answer immediately, just presses his face close to France’s in an attempt to find his lips. It takes a moment—he kisses France’s throat, his jaw, his cheek, and enjoys the way the other man laughs and squirms at his touch. But finally, finally, England presses his lips to France’s, and France sighs and opens up to him immediately.  
   
This part isn’t fresh, hasn’t been new for a long time. But it’s still wonderful, they both agree.  
   
France breaks the kiss with a pout a moment later. “Angleterre, you didn’t guess! There is orange, and almond liquor…”  
   
“Shut up, France.” England edges forward again, and swallows France’s next laugh with another kiss.


	6. DenNor - "Stop trying to cheer me up!"

He lets out a breath and watches it dissipate into the air, eyes rolling back as he tips his head backwards against the wall. It isn’t like Denmark to be late, usually. (Norway has a theory that years of friendship with the Netherlands has trained Denmark out of tardiness, because the other nation is so obsessively precise about “appointments,” even and especially when it comes to drinking dates.)  
   
Suffice to day, however, that Denmark is never late. But now it is a quarter to seven, the movie is starting in ten minutes, and Denmark is nowhere to be found. Norway even bought his ticket for him, assuming that he’d just nick the money back from the other’s wallet at some point tonight.  
   
And, another thing: Norway doesn’t like to be kept waiting.  
   
The instant the thought crosses his mind, he hears a familiar set of heavy footsteps just behind him.  
   
“Sorry! Hi, sorry! I know I’m late—sorry!”  
   
Norway blinks opened bored eyes to take in Denmark’s appearance—hair wind-swept, cheeks red with exertion, eyes wide. But he’s also… dressed up. His button-down is the precise shade of crimson he usually favors, but it isn’t the type of shirt he wears under suits for meetings. No, instead he has a well-fit black cardigan, and dark jeans with an artful wash. He looks… nice. As though he’s put in effort.  
   
So of course, Norway asks, “Did Sverige dress you, or something?”  
   
He sees the precise moment the words register, as Denmark straightens up and his face turns even redder, brows narrowing over blue eyes that are usually bright but occasionally darken with tactical acumen. Now he just looks angry, however, and… embarrassed.  
   
“Oh,” Norway says. “I was  _joking_.”  
   
“We had a meeting,” Denmark grumbles, looking down at his shoes. “Ran long. Then I told him I was coming here, and I—never mind.”  
   
“You didn’t ask him to come along?” Norway asks blandly. It’s been awhile, in fact, since it’s been just the two of them. It’s nice, having the security of the Nordic Council, and Norway won’t pretend his life isn’t easier when the “family” gets along. But Friday nights lately have been dinners at Finland’s house, or there’ll be Saturday boat rides along the North Sea, and it’s always the five of them, unless Greenland or Åland decides to tag along.  
   
Denmark’s brow furrows. “Why would I invite him to our—” He cuts himself off, which is not something Denmark usually does. Usually, he barrels ahead with no foresight, no matter how inappropriate his comments are. Usually, there’s no getting him to shut up.  
   
But now he’s staring at Norway, taking in his appearance—a well-worn t-shirt and an old, comfortable jacket. Norway has made absolutely no effort, because he cannot fathom a world in which this situation would require it. Denmark had only asked him to the movies, and the only thing unusual about that is the fact there aren’t three other people here with them.  
   
Norway thinks back to three days ago, when they were leaving Iceland’s house. Denmark had tapped him on the shoulder, pulled him aside and mumbled, “What’re you doing on Friday?” And Norway had no plans, so he said as much, and Denmark had suggested a movie, and Norway had no reason to say no, so he said yes.  
   
“Danmark,” Norway says, very slowly and very carefully, “Did you think this was a date?”  
   
Time seems to suspend between them, for a moment. Denmark’s face shifts through a flurry of expressions, like several pictures taken in quick succession—surprise, embarrassment, hurt. But he settles on a laugh, shaking his head.  
   
“No, ‘course not! Where’d you get that idea?” He tugs at Norway’s elbow. “We’re going to be late for the movie, aren’t we? Let’s get inside—did you buy tickets?”  
   
He keeps rambling, but Norway plants his feet and stands his ground. This is… unexpected. There’s always been something between them, a current running under the surface of their relationship. But Norway had assumed that Denmark’s mellowed attitude in modern times had brought with it, also, a shift in his feelings for Norway. Sweden and Finland have grown to be old and married, but Norway thought that he and Denmark had missed the chance for the same.  
   
(Not that he wanted the same. He and Denmark are not Finland and Sweden, and thank god for that.)  
   
“Norge,” Denmark whines, tugging at his arm. “Come on.”  
   
Norway shakes his head. “How would this be different?”  
   
“What?”  
   
“What would change, about tonight, if this was a date?”  
   
Denmark’s turning red again, but eventually he shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe I’d walk you back to your place afterwards.”  
   
“You’d do that anyway,” Norway reminds him. “What else?”  
   
“Norge, can we just go see the movie? Just forget it, okay?”  
   
“No. Answer the question.”  
   
Denmark sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe I’d stay, I don’t know! Or kiss you goodnight, at least.”  
   
That doesn’t sound like a terrible outcome, actually. Denmark may be an idiot, loud and boisterous and a nuisance, but at least he’s a nuisance that Norway is used to. He’s gotten better, over the years, at listening to what Norway wants. And if memory serves, he’s excellent at kissing.  
   
“We’re getting late,” Denmark says.  
   
“Who’s fault is that?” Norway retorts.  
   
“Stop it.” Denmark’s face is back to that uncomfortable combination of hurt and angry. “Stop trying to cheer me up, by pretending to consider it. I messed up, I get it—can we just pretend this didn’t happen?”  
   
“Who said anything about pretending?” Norway asks. He doesn’t even have to look at Denmark’s face to know there’s a smile blooming there. Instead, he grabs Denmark’s hand and leads him towards the theater. “You’re buying concessions,” he says, and Denmark squeezes his hand in response.  
   
They miss the trailers, but manage a kiss before the actors on screen. All-in-all, not a terrible first date.


	7. FrUK - "I think you missed your calling." & "That's a good look for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place in 1985, at a real-life Smiths concert; the song referenced is [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1tb8Xmq0k7w). Also if you can’t imagine why France would be turned on by “All You Need is Love,” please listen to it and then imagine England asking the Beatles for help with a declaration of his feelings.

A lesser nation might have been mad that England wasn’t home when he came calling, but France is above such pettiness. He also happens to have a borrowedkey to England’s London flat, and the telephone number of England’s personal secretary. So he puts on the kettle for hot water and puts his feet up on England’s coffee table, glancing around and consoling himself.  
   
It is a rare chance, after all, that he has such unguarded insight into the other nation. The apartment has changed a bit, since the last time he was here. The old record player is still set up in the corner, but now it’s surrounded by new albums— _The Queen is Dead_  catches France’s eye, and he wonders how England can stand such a title in his own home. The place is messier than it usually is, too; there are crumpled t-shirts and day-old coffee mugs and tea cups littered about, no sense of order at all. It is very unlike England, France thinks.  
   
The phone rings just as he finishes his first cup of coffee. “Oui—yes?” he says, because he knows who it will be.  
   
“Ah, Mr. Bonnefoy, you’re still there,” England’s assistant says. “I’m really very sorry that Mr. Kirkland missed your meeting—there was nothing on the schedule.”  
   
“Not to worry, my dear,” France assures the young man gracefully. “This wasn’t a scheduled meeting. But if you would tell me where Monsieur Kirkland is, now?”  
   
“Ah.” The assistant sounds a bit nervous, laughing lightly. “The thing is, Mr. Kirkland hasn’t been keeping a regular schedule, lately. He’s, um, been a bit erratic.”  
   
“What do you mean?” When the assistant doesn’t answer, France lowers his voice and practically purrs, “It’s alright, you know. You can tell me. I’m a very dear, very old friend of Arthur’s.”  
   
“…he hasn’t come into work for several weeks, now,” the assistant says, all in a rush. “When I call and ask, he says he, erm, can’t be assed to show up, and that the government’s never done any good for anyone and he refuses to be party to it! And the work really is piling up, and Mr. Bonnefoy if you could speak with him about it I’d really appreciate it. There’s a show at the Royal Albert Hall, tonight, and I’m sure you’d find him there.”  
   
“A show,” France repeats thoughtfully. But he thanks the man all the same, before putting down the phone and washing out his coffee mug. It takes no time at all to reach the Hall, but the crowd outside is overwhelming and he can’t think to how he’ll get in. He also sticks out rather like a sore thumb—his suit is custom-made by Alaïa, his hair as perfectly coifed as ever. But this crowd…  
   
This crowd seems to be composed mostly of black leather and frayed tartan, neon hairdos and worn combat boots. Flashes of silver gleam from all places—ears and eyebrows, tongues and bellybuttons. It is chaotic, and rough, and France can’t help but think there is a wild sort of charm to all of it.  
   
He isn’t entirely unaware of this sort of subculture—it’s touched his own shores, as well. But his own interests don’t lie there, the movement and music haven’t wholly captured his attention. And though he knows England loves his musicians, he can’t imagine the other nation in this crowd. England is supposed to favor crisply-ironed shirts and exact measures of sugar in his tea, not this cacophonous and angry sort of energy. France stands to one side, gaping slightly.  
   
“What the ever-loving hell are  _you_  doing here?”  
   
France turns, blinks, turns again, blinks once more, and then continues to gape. He’s staring at a young man who must be England, or so his logical mind tells him. But the person standing before him could not look less like England. His hair is still a shaggy mess, falling forward over those unmistakable eyebrows and vibrantly green eyes, but one of his ears is looped through with silver, now. (It had been gold, last time, and nearly five hundred years ago. Ah, privateer England had been a thing to behold, as well…)  
   
He’s wearing a leather jacket over a tight t-shirt, which seems to underscore how thin he is. Brow furrowed defiantly, he marches over to France and tugs on his hair, hard.  
   
“Oi! Listen to me when I’m talking to you, frog.”  
   
The jolt of pain snaps France back to reality. He coughs and edges away from England, face reflexively moving to sneer at him, but somehow he pauses mid-step.  
   
“Are you here to see the show, Angleterre?”  
   
England rolls his eyes skyward, punches France in the arm. “No, idiot. I’m  _in_  the show. And you haven’t answered the damn question—what are you doing in my city?”  
   
France flips his hair back, licks his lips and offers England his most charming smile. “Why, I’m here to see your show, dear. Of course.”  
   
Amazingly, England doesn’t ask him to leave. Astoundingly, he gets France a seat inside. And then he leaves with another shrug, his boots clumping against the Hall’s spotless floors. France sits, orders himself a drink, and watches. The music is—not so bad, actually. The singer has a hypnotic voice, even as his lyrics speak of doom and dissatisfaction. The inevitability and hopelessness that he describes hit France somewhere deep in his chest—because France knows, too, how one can make art and find beauty in such things.  
   
But mostly France is watching England. His long, slim fingers glide across guitar strings as he stands to the left of the stage. The spotlights aren’t focused on him, and he looks down as he plays, surrounded by shadows. But France can still see the formidable slant of his brows, and the movement of his lips as he mouths along to the words.  
   
“ _And so I checked all the registered historical facts, and I was shocked into shame to discover… How I’m the eighteenth pale descendent, of some old queen or other…_ ”  
   
France doesn’t smile, precisely, but he thinks he understands England a bit better with each word. He wonders, distantly, if this was how England felt when he first read the work of the philosophes, or found France in the throngs of revolutionary crowds.  
   
“ _Oh, has the world changed, or have I changed_?”  
   
That is the question, isn’t it, France thinks. His answer would be both, and he’s not sorry for that. He’d rather the world be as it is now, uncertain and bleak though it may seem on some days. At least now he has the luxury of being able to visit England whenever he wishes, and without worrying about taking an arrow or bullet for his troubles.  
   
“ _Life is very long, when you’re lonely. Life is very long, when you’re lonely_ …”  
   
The lights dim.  
   
France is a man possessed by the end of the show—he elbows his way past the crowds to the back entrance, finds England’s small frame and grabs his hand. England barely has time to look up before France pulls him away from the crowd, presses him into the wall, attacks with lips against his throat.  
   
“What the fuck are you doing?” England hisses, but when his fingers tug at France’s hair, it’s not to pull him away.  
   
“I don’t think I’ve been this attracted to you since ‘All You Need is Love’ played over the radio for the first time,” France murmurs, a little abashed to admit it.  
   
England huffs a laugh, ever so smug. “Suck my dick, France,” he mutters without much heat. France supposes, with his current attitude, messages of love and universal acceptance are far from his mind.  
   
“Yes, I will,” France declares, and he’s already getting on his knees when England pulls him back up by the arm and kisses him roughly on the lips. It’s a clash of tongues and teeth, England sucking on his bottom lip until France forgets to breathe. He’s dizzy when he pulls away, saying, “I think you’ve missed your calling, Angleterre. You would’ve made quite the rock star.”  
   
England snorts, dismissive. “It’s not about being a star,” he says, painted nails digging into France’s wrists.  
   
“Still,” France says. “It’s a good look for you.”  
   
“Not about that, either,” England retorts.  
   
“Explain it to me then,” France suggests. “I’ll take you home.”  
   
His government likely won’t be happy about this, France thinks as England drapes a possessive arm around his waist, but then again, France has gotten much better at channeling his revolutionary spirits over the years. England is apparently still learning that particular art, but with such wonderfully exquisite results, France can’t complain.


	8. FrUK - "Can we pretend I didn’t just say that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can be read as a prequel to the preceding chapter, but doesn't have to be. 
> 
> Relevant dates: France proposed the Franco-British Union during the Suez Crisis of 1956. The Beatles released “All You Need Is Love” as part of the [Our World](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Our_World_\(TV_special\)) broadcast in June, 1967.

England’s first attempt is a phone call.  
   
“Allô?” France answers somewhat breathlessly, turning away from his lunch guests.  
   
“France,” England’s voice responds,hurried. “Look, just listen, I need to talk—”  
   
France doesn’t wait for the rest of it; hehangs up the phone and turns back to Monaco and Belgium, apologizing for the interruption.  
   
—  
   
When Canada opens the door to France’s apartment, it hits the side table and sends a torrent of letters falling to the ground.  
   
“Sorry,” Canada says immediately, kneeling to retrieve them. But then his brow furrows. “France? What is this?”  
   
France swoops in quickly, grabs the letters out of Canada’s hands and shoves them into a convenient drawer. “Nothing,” he says, as though Canada hadn’t seen England’s return address on every one of them, or noticed the fact that each is unopened.  
   
—  
   
“Thank you for lunch,” Germany says formally, setting his cutlery aside. France, sitting across from him, smirks at his care and shakes his head.  
   
“Don’t mention it, dear. After all, we’re friends now.” They get up from the table and France leaves his Francs beside the check.  
   
Germany makes a vaguely affirmative noise, straightening his tie as he launches into another speech about their current treaty and future plans. France is only half-listening, but he notices when Germany stops abruptly.  
   
“Ah,” Germany says. “England. What are you doing in Paris?”  
   
What, indeed. France’s eyebrows narrow over his shrewd blue eyes, and before England can say anything, he drapes an arm around Germany’s waist and turns him away deliberately.  
   
“Come, Germany,” he says, “let’s go elsewhere.”  
   
Despite Germany’s confusion and England’s flustered protest, France never looks back.  
   
—  
   
“Don’t even think about it,” France declares, pushing another drink into America’s hands one evening after a world meeting. “Don’t say anything, if it’s on his behalf.”  
   
America just takes a long swig of his drink and rolls his eyes. “Dude, you guys have serious issues. And I wasn’t going to say anything, anyway.”  
   
Relieved, France leans back and tries to enjoy himself.  
   
—  
   
Of course, it is impossible to avoid England forever. One evening, France is leaning against his balcony with a cigarette dangling from his fingers. It’s late June, and the heat is warm against his skin as he takes another drag and inhales deeply. It’s at that precise moment of profound peace that he looks down and sees a familiar (and unwanted) head of shaggy blond hair.  
   
“You have two minutes to get out of here,” France calls down scathingly, “before I find something suitably hot to pour over your head.”  
   
England looks up at him with the sort of furious determination France has not seen since World War II. “I’m not going anywhere, frog, until you listen to me.”  
   
He’s dressed casually today, plain dark trousers and no tie. He looks good, casually enticing, like one of his musicians. France swallows and turns his head away, lifting the cigarette to his lips once more.  
   
“As I told you some time ago, your government may speak to mine if there’s anything Britain requires from France.” It’s a dismissal. France holds his breath and waits for England to leave.  
   
“Fuck that!” England snaps. He’s clutching something, large and square and wrapped in brown paper. “I don’t give a damn about your government, or your bloody feelings! It’s been eleven years, when are you going to grow up?”  
   
“You’ve thrown tantrums that have lasted far longer,” France retorts. True, England’s response to the American War of Independence had only compounded their existing animosity, but it still counts. Probably.  
   
“Did you even listen to the broadcast?” England demands, suddenly.  
   
France tilts his head, confused. “Of course I did, I helped organize it.”  
   
“And did you watch my contribution?” England presses.  
   
He hadn’t. East Germany had pulled out at the last moment, leaving him and Spain bereft of their planned reunion. France hadn’t even thought of England, at the time, but he’d always planned to leave before his portion began. He didn’t want to give England the satisfaction.  
   
“France,” England calls up, voice sounding both infuriated and desperate. “Please, just listen to it.”  
   
France can count on one had the number of times that England has said “please” with sincerity. The number of times the word has been directed at him is even less. He takes one more drag from his cigarette, dropping the stub into the ashtray to put it out. He takes long moments, running one hand through his hair and staring out at the sunset.  
   
Finally: “You have ten minutes.”  
   
—  
   
He doesn’t offer England a drink, nor invite him to sit down. Instead, England stands awkwardly in his sitting room, unwrapping the brown paper from what turns out to be a record. France rolls his eyes when he sees Lennon and McCartney on the cover.  
   
England notices, and glares at him, even though France is being very generous by not having throw England out, yet. But England proceeds to blow the dust off France’s record player, setting the vinyl disc in reverently and turning on the player.  
   
France sits down on his loveseat, arms crossed over his chest. “Would you get on with it?” he demands.  
   
“It’s starting,” England hisses back. “Just shut up and listen, would you?”  
   
Despite everything, France thinks he owes England this. So he shuts up, and listens. The first few bars of the song tug at his heart, the way they always have, filling him with old and familiar passion and warmth.  
   
“Angleterre,” he says, sitting up, “this is…”  
   
“No, it’s not. Shut up.  _Listen_.”  
   
La Marseilles fades away quickly, replaced by England’s dearest voices. The lyrics are simple, and could almost be sardonic. But France knows England, and so he knows the British—he can recognize their dry, frank sincerity when he hears it.  
   
But hearing England’s heart sing about love only fills France with bitterness. His hands clench in his lap, face pinched as the song continues. The refrain continues, over and over, taunting France.  
   
“ _All you need is love… Love is all you need…_ ”  
   
“Turn it off,” France demands, “I don’t want to hear any more.”  
   
“No,” England snaps, “France, it’s almost over—”  
   
“Turn it  _off_!” France snaps, getting to his feet. It’s a moot point, however, because the voices peter out and leave only the roll of vinyl and static in their wake.  
   
“You didn’t like it?” England asks, looking—confused, disappointed, hurt.  
   
“Why would I like it?” France yells. “Why are you taunting me? You’ve made it very clear what you feel about me, and yet you use  _my song_  to sing about love! How dare you? Get out of my home, get out of my country, I am going to—”  
   
England steps forward suddenly, grabs France’s wrists and forces his arms to his sides. He looks at France with startlingly intense green eyes, brows narrowed.  
   
“You never listen to me,” England hisses. “I’ve been trying to tell you for over a decade, you stupid man, and you’ve ignored me every time.”  
   
France struggles against England’s grip, shaking his head. “You’ve said all you needed to,” France sniffs. “You didn’t want me.”  
   
“I didn’t want to marry you!” England snaps, as though that should make France hurt less. “And not over some stupid crisis! That’s no reason to—don’t pretend that was so much about love, for you! I wounded your pride, not your heart.”  
   
“You did more than that, to both.” France turns his head away, avoiding England’s gaze. “You laughed at me. You acted like it was the last thing you’d ever want to do.”  
   
“We’d kill each other inside of a week if we got married.” England’s voice is high and exasperated. “You know that, you’ve said as much! And you’re doing fine, now, so I don’t understand why you’re still holding onto this when I’m pouring my goddamn heart out to you!”  
   
“You laughed!” France says. “You laughed as though it was a joke! As though I, and  _we_ , were a joke! Why would I forgive you for that?”  
   
“Because I respect you too much to propose out of desperation, again, or to accept such a proposal,” England says lowly. France thinks back to 1940 and flinches. “You and I are equals, France, no matter how long we spent trying to prove otherwise. We don’t need some bloody union to say what we’ve always known.”  
   
France licks his lips, turns his head and sees Lennon and McCartney and Ringo and George. “You’re saying we don’t need marriage. We only need…”  
   
“Love,” England breathes. “It’s all you need.” He screws up his face then, gagging at himself. “Oh, god, can we pretend I didn’t just say that? Never, ever tell John I said that. In fact, never speak to John at all. Especially not about this.”  
   
France feels anger bleed away, replaced by longing and affection. “Did he just happen to write the song at a convenient moment?” he teases. He eases his wrists out of England’s grip, clutches the other man’s hands tightly instead.  
   
England turns his head and mutters something, turning beet red.  
   
“What was that?”  
   
“I said—I asked him to! Alright? Are you happy?”

“Very,” France says, biting down on a laugh. “Shall we listen to it again?”


	9. FrUK - "Can I tell you a secret?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one veers straight off the road from light-hearted, though I don't think it's particularly angsty. Lets call it "domesticity born of being war-mongering empires for centuries."

England shatters all but one plate of France’s favorite china set against the counter before he leaves, leaving the last amidst the wreckage to taunt in its perfection. The rest of the porcelain he leaves scattered about the floor and over the countertop. He never notices that a shard had cut his cheek, and now blood drips slowly and steadily down his face, staining his collar with one single drop of red.

He glowers the entire way home, the collar of his coat folded down to reveal his ferocious scowl to anyone who’d dare to look his way. He thinks to read the paper on the train, but ends up shredding into twenty-eight strips of equal length before crumpling them all up and shoving them between the seats.

The train arrives precisely on time, and he flips off the central clock at the station as he stomps off the platform and down the stone stairs. He’s immediately assaulted by rain, heavier than usual. By the time he’s gone two blocks his hair is stuck to his forehead and the back of his neck, damp and uncomfortable.

Car horns blare at him from every street, pedestrians rush past and curse at him when he doesn’t watch where he’s going. The streetlights are too bright, through the fog of the rain, and even though it is late evening the city is full of frantic and cacophonous energy.

It sets him on edge, even though he knows he’s the cause. His heart is angry.

It takes him three and a half minutes to dig the key to his flat out of his pocket, and by the time he has he’s so frustrated that he kicks the door open and smiles when it slams against the opposite wall and leaves a mark. England stomps into the foyer, kicking off his shoes and throwing his coat over the end table, not caring that it will drip rain water and have the entire place smelling like wet wool.

He’s unbuttoning his shirt, preparing to wash off this day and these emotions with a scalding shower, when he notices the light on in the sitting room.

“What are you doing here,” England asks with deadly calm as he enters the room, damp shirt hanging open as he looks straight past France to stare at the opposite wall.

“Wondering why it took you twelve hours to get home, when I got here in eight.” France doesn’t look up when he replies. He has one leg crossed over the other, and is flipping through Le Monde. He’s wearing the same pinstriped suit he’d had on in New York, barely rumpled.

“I had to make a detour.” England sneers, remembering the shattered china. He tries to imagine France’s face when he returns to Paris, his beautiful face twisted with rage when he sees his beautiful things ruined.

England loves ruining broken things, and France most of all.

“Mm.” France flips another page. For some reason, the fact that he hasn’t yet looked at England infuriates the other, makes his hands clench at his sides.

“Fascinating,” England agrees with brittle false cheer. “Now get out.”

“In a moment,” France agrees. That’s enough to give England pause, but then he continues, “But first, can I tell you a secret?”

It takes England back three hundred years, for a moment, and sees France settled on velvet and satin at Versailles, sipping wine. He had lived off of secrets then, traded them as if they had more value than gold. He’d known the twists and turns of everyone’s intentions, and used that to push himself up to be supreme amongst them. England had hated him for it, even as the image had taken his breath away.

“Angleterre,” France prompts.

“Yes,” England says, through his teeth. “Tell me, and then get out.” France’s secrets are valuable, after all.

France smiles softy, folds his newspaper neatly in two and sets it aside on the coffee table. He rises slowly to his feet and crosses the distance between them. He has a slow and languid grace, the perfect counterpoint to England’s tightly-wound tension and anger.

He makes no attempt to touch England, which is new. Instead he spreads his hands and lets his tongue peek out from behind his perfectly-spaced teeth. “I have never forgotten, and I never will forget, how glorious you are in your anger.”

For a moment that stops England cold. He stares, and wonders what France sees, looking at him. Is he the child with bow and arrows slung across his back, or the teenager in armor? The privateer, or the redcoat, or the officer in olive green, hands clenched to fists and mouth hard and unforgiving?

“Did you hear me?” France says, and this time he does reach out, taking one of England’s hands. England turns his hand so that he can dig his nails deep into France’s palm, dimly aware that France isn’t pulling away.

“Why aren’t you angry?” England demands, suddenly. His fingers clench, vicelike, into France’s skin.

“Oh, I was,” France says. “And then, when I sat for seven hours on a flight by myself, I realized that I’d done it on purpose.”

The fight is a distant thing to England, now, even though the anger is still fresh and hot and thrumming through his veins. His head snaps up as he looks at France, trying to find any sense of duplicity on his face. But the other nation’s face is calm and open, lips slightly parted.

“I smashed your 1820 china,” England tells France. He uses his grip on the other’s hand to pull him close, his free hand coming to rest against France’s hip.

France’s eyes go wide and then narrow, and there—there it is. England sees the same sort of fury he’s feeling flare in France’s eyes, and it shouldn’t be comforting but it is. Because some days England feels he will be consumed by it, this anger, boiling beneath his skin with no outlet. And if even one other person feels it in equal measure, well, at least then he isn’t alone.

“Give me a week,” France murmurs. “I’ll find some sort of revenge.”

He kisses England, then, and England kisses him back. England bites down on France’s lips until they go from shell-pink to flushed red, and their grip on each other’s hands leaves angry half-moon marks in their skin.

It is an angry, burning thing, and long hours later they lay in bed and say nothing, because they are hollowed-out and raw. But England traces his fingers over the marks on France’s palm, and sees something of himself reflected in the other’s face.


End file.
